


Classics: One

by protagonistically (the_protagonist)



Series: Classics [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_protagonist/pseuds/protagonistically
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to learn this stuff some how.</p><p>Or three training sessions in Tim's early career as Robin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classics: One

  
"No." Tim hears the aggravated, half-Batman, half-Bruce Wayne voice bounce off of the old rock walls of the cave just as he stumbles back from the crumbling ledge where he had been standing a breath ago. It's the voice Bruce uses when he's tired -- when the lines between Batman and the man underneath are blurred with exhaustion.  

And the man is right to be annoyed, they've been at this for almost an hour now and Tim has yet to make even a single jump.   
  
Tim sort of tripped once, walking up to the side of the canyon, but he doesn't really think that really counts.  
  
A strong, gauntlet-covered hand re-adjusts his grip on the grappling hooks' handle with rough, swift efficiency, while a heavy, modified utility boot kicks at his own right boot until the placement of his foot is correct and uncomfortable once again. “Like that. Toes just over the ledge, like this. Now, bend your left knee.” He mirrors the position Bruce is in before the man steps back and said, “Try it again.”  
  
His heart is pounding in his chest, but nothing seemed louder to him than the sounds of the sides of the cliff giving way and sending small avalanches of rock and dirt down down down into the caves decent. Down the rabbit hole; the canyon where Tim is supposed to be flying over; to the next landing.  
  
The noises are fighting each other and nobody was winning.  
  
It's just thirty feet away. Thirty stupid feet. The vacant landing in front of him mocks him unmercifully.  
  
He shakes out his shoulders; ignores the feeling of the cold, nervous sweat dripping down his back. The grappling hook is hard in his hand, cold metal even through the soft synthetic material of the gloves Bruce had told him to wear. And while Bruce probably couldn’t see or smell the sweat that has pooled in the fingers and palms of his encase hand, he has to known it is there.   
  
He _is_ Batman.  
  
Tim can feel the judgment coming off of Bruce as the man’s cold blue eyes focus on Tim's back. He sets up for the jump, bends his legs and stands there, unmoving for 45 seconds. Willing himself to either jump… or just.   
  
Maybe if he could just die right here? Of embarrassment and shame. He just… why can't he do this?  
  
"No. Stop." Bruce mentally counts to ten, Tim knows because he is doing the same thing. "What seems to be the problem, Tim? Why can’t you do this?" The older man echoes the questions Tim has been asking himself all night.

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and looked up before making eye contact, briefly, with Tim, "It’s not the height."  
  
And that last part… It isn't a question; Tim has been scaling buildings since he was seven, following his idols around, trying to get the best shot, the best view. And if this “best view" was on a precariously assembled, rusted fire escape 25 flights up, well then; Tim would climb.

“No. It’s not the height,” Tim agrees. It’s just… Tim didn’t think it is _abnormal_ to not want to propel yourself off an insurmountable height (regardless of the technology in your hand to prevent one from falling to one’s death) without putting at least a _little_ thought behind it, anyway.   
  
Sure, Bruce _says_  he won't let Tim fall. They had practiced with the net and he knew the triggers of the grappling gun better than he knew the programs on his TI-89 graphing calculator.  
  
But Tim just couldn’t jump off the ledge.  
  
"Is this… How did you train the others?" He asks, staring across to the his destination, hoping for some… insight? Something - anything to make him feel better. To give him some *perspective*.  
  
But, Bruce just does his non-verbal sigh thing - the one that made him feel less than useless - and raises a perfectly tweezed eyebrow at him. The man’s grooming habits are meticulous and even effeminate to a point.  
  
"Oh,” Tim says breathlessly, “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?" He thinks about the way Dick flew at Haly’s that night with his parents and the way he made gravity seem _optional_ in between high-rises and skyscrapers and his heart stutters a bit in his chest. "Dick… Was probably flipping and flying over canyons in his mother’s womb. And Jason was br—" He cuts himself off with a noise-less gasp and shuffles back another step from the ledge. Bruce’s entire face hardens, his eye’s narrow and grow even colder and more blank. His large arms bulge as his fists tightened and Tim knows that under the gauntlets the man’s knuckles have to be bone white.   
  
Bruce isn't looking at him, but Tim can tell that icy eyes are focused on a spot just above his left ear. Tim knows that look too; His _mother_  often does that when Tim tries to talk to her but she is busy thinking of something else.  
  
Tim has to look down; look away and take another small stutter-step back. “I’m sorry. That was _stupid_. I - I’m… you know-” Tim cut himself off and blurts out, ”You should just push me off the cliff.”   
  
The words just spill out of his mouth before he can even process what he is saying. “I mean, I might never jump, Bruce. Actually, if you just… did it for me, I mean - I might fight you, of course, but… I mean, it’s human _nature_  for me to try and fight you, but if you just pushed me off, then I might actually," He takes a breath, "-do this.” He says most of that quickly, mumbles to his feet encased in the modified combat boots that gave him blisters the size of New Jersey on his heels and ankles the first couple of times he put them on.

The words spill out of his mouth and he braces himself for the motion and force of Bruce’s huge arms to pick him up and toss him over. Into the great sink hole that he’d been stationed in front of for fifty minutes. The hole that threatens to swallow him whole. Black and… black and deep.  
  
And after he says it, the words collected in front of his brain, he realizes the _implications_  of them. Tim drops the grappling hook when his hands started to shake and he scrambles to pick it up before Batman can carry out... Why had Tim given him that horrible idea?!  
  
But when Tim rights himself and lifts his eyes from the ground to observe the large man in front of him through his eyelashes that are wet from catching the sweat rolling down his face, Bruce has unclenched and is staring at him with his head tilted to the side and a surprise, _concerned_ look on his face.  
  
"Tim. I’m not going to _throw_ you off a cliff. Why would you think that?" The man sighs out loud this time, "No. It’s okay. I should be… It’s probably a good thing that you don’t want to leap off buildings… It’s actually probably pretty healthy." Cold, blue eyes glance down at Tim, and then back out over the rock formation in front of them. "Be easy, Tim. We’ll… I’ll think of something. I’m not going to throw you off a rock. I promise."  
  
Tim takes a small step backwards anyways, his heart still hammering away at the inside of his ribcage.   
  
This was a test and he had definitely failed.  
  
*  
  
"So, I heard you told Bruce to throw you off a cliff. That doesn’t speak highly of your will to live, Timmy."   
  
"It’s Tim. And, to be fair, I only suggested it after being a complete and utter failure and… failing to jump myself. For an hour. I was just wasting his time. Really, Bruce was as patient as he could have been." He mopes into his cereal. "And, um, what are you even doing here?"  
  
"Well, you spent all those years stalking me, so I thought turn-about was fair play, here, Tim-ster. And, can I just say, you are possibly the most boring 13 year-old ever?" He peers over Tim’s shoulder, "Is that _Total_?"  
  
Tim’s eyebrows screwed together as he looked at the cereal, “It’s _good_ for you.”  
  
Tim uses the spoon to excavate a shallow well into the bran flakes and watches as white skim milk pours through. He is boring and useless and a creepy stalker and he is so _sore_ and — “It’s just… Tim.”  
  
Dick studies him, can feel the clear blue eyes watching him watch his food get soggier by the second. “Hey. _Hey_ \- That was out of line and not at all what it sounded like.” Dick reaches over and tipped Tim’s chair backwards, making eye contact mandatory. “Tim. I didn’t mean it like that; it’s just I was watching you for a while and you did laundry and then homework and then you cleaned your room and now you’re eating cereal - _Total_ \- and I was just struck with the polarity of you — Tim-you and then Robin-you.”   
  
And Tim absolutely doesn't let his shoulders dip, “I’m not very Robin-like, huh?” He lets the utensil sink into the bowl and pushes it away from him. “I think... I think this might have been a bad idea.”  
  
"That’s _so_ not it, Tim. You’re just… I find myself intrigued at the differences, is all." Dick let Tim’s chair drop back to the floor and grabs for another one, which he turns backwards and straddles.  
  
"I’m. I’m kind of really bad at this."  
  
"You're really not.  And you’ll get _better_."  
  
"I realize how… how _whiney_ this sounds, but I’m not used to things being this hard. I’m not used to… failing this miserably." He spent a good portion of his childhood _hiding_ his flaws and now here they were; on center stage to the people who, for the longest time, meant… *mean* the most to him.  
  
"Bruce wouldn’t have chosen-"  
  
"He didn _’_ t choose me." He reminds the former Robin, "I was a stalker, remember?"  
  
"If he didn’t think you could do it you wouldn’t be sitting here feeling like your body was slammed into a brick wall a million times and like your self esteem will never rise above sea level ever again. Trust me. I do *absolutely* understand everything you are feeling right now."  
  
It wasn’t that Tim thought Dick was lying; he is sure Dick probably struggled with _something_ at one point during his training. But, really. Tim had seen the physical condition Dick had been in when the acrobat was just nine years old and in terms of skill and talent, Tim is nearly 90% sure that Dick taught _Bruce_ things about body and movement and the efficient physics of grace in the velocity and both types of energy and how to use that to… excel.

Dick has a smile on his face and it is soft and goading, but Tim can't give him anything back. He doesn't have anything left to give.  
  
" _Tim_. I-I’m supposed to make you feel _better_ …" His voice trailed off and Tim could hear the frown in his voice and he felt oddly guilty for *that*. "And why are you eating cereal for dinner? Alfred can’t approve of this." Dick’s chair squeals against the floor as he stands up and pulls up Tim with him. "Your parents aren’t home, right? Cause, I’m kidnapping you."  
  
And he wants to say no; wants to make excuses. He has homework to do, a paper to write (he does). That he was tired and sore and his arms and quads and every single one of the 650 plus muscles in his body are exploding with pain and fatigue (they are). That Tim has embarrassed himself enough for one day (he had). But, Dick is giving him that smile - and it is so familiar to the one he remembers all those years ago and once again he found himself drawn in and he was walking to the sink and dumping his soggy cereal down the drain.  
  
*  
  
Their destination ends up being Dick’s gym. One he had personally set up, at least. There are tell-tale signs of the man in question, such as the trapeze rig and several harnesses on bungie cords. Also there is bad 80’s pop jewel cases tossed carelessly by just a *ridiculously* monster piece of stereo equipment.  
  
It's a fairly standard set-up, for a gymnast’s training gym, though. A long, elevated trampoline in the center met with a large, built-in pit filled to the brim with foam cubes. On another side of the pit is another trampoline, this one in-ground, smaller and level with the mouth of the pit. On either side of the pit there are Olympic-sized blue tumbling mats. A quick look around confirms parallel bars, uneven bars, a vault and a horse. A set of rings floated from the ceiling, swaying with the air being pushed out of the air conditioner.   
  
"See that pit? Don’t those foam cubes just look like buckets of fun, Timmy? Don’t you wanna just dive right in to the foam-tastic abyss?"  
  
"Foam-tastic isn’t a word." They are intriguing to be sure, but fun? Tim has to wonder how many snuffly-sniffly kids with jam-hands and cold and flu germs and viruses crawled around in that pit. He wondered how often they cleaned those… and how would you go about cleaning them? Steam would probably do the trick but-  
  
"Tomato-tomato, Mr. Drake." Dick grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt and pulls him closer to the side of the pit with the ground level trampoline.  
  
And right away Dick leapt and bounces just once and does the most impressive flip; the one that was burned into his memory forever and Tim just has to stand there, mouth open just a little, and stare with awe. Because Dick was Robin. Dick will always be Robin.   
  
But Tim doesn't have long to think about that, because Dick lands with a stuttery bounce and a flourish and then pulls Tim onto the trampoline with him and proceedes to… to *bounce* Tim.  
  
And then one perfectly timed bounce and a small shove two seconds later and Dick has- he’d literally *bounced* Tim into the pit. Dick’s open laughter followed him as he flailed through the air.  
  
"Dick!" He spits out what was probably pieces of foam that was in his mouth. "Why did you *do* that? I don’t think these things are very sanitary." His voice was muffled from a block that was in his face  
  
"You’ll be fine." The former Robin chuckles out. And Dick sounds further away, so he struggles with propelling his body out of the cubes that are wedging him in their evil folds to look for the older man.   
  
Tim swims to edge and pulls himself out using tired arm muscles and stands up and shakes himself off, freeing the little foam balls that are clinging to his t-shirt and gym shorts.  
  
He sees Dick jump off the tramp again and walk over to him and Tim hastily retreated back. “Fool me once, shame on you, Dick.”  
  
Dick laughs again, and although it isn't mocking, per say, Tim didn’t really care for it. “I’m not gonna throw you in again. Scouts honor.”  
  
"You were never a boyscout."  
  
"Bat’s honor?"  
  
"Hm."  
  
"Seriously, I just wanted you to know that the pit can’t hurt you and now that you know that, you won’t be afraid to fall and now that you don’t have this irrational fear holding you back - well. There’s a very small chance you’ll be back in that pit." Dick holds out the harness and points to the trapeze rig. "Unless of course I push you in." And this smile was softer.  
  
Tim takes the harness.  
  
*  
  
Tim walks out of the shower room, still towel drying his hair, dressed in what he assumed are old, clean clothes of Dick’s. They are a few sizes too big, but they smelled like the man and are butter soft.  
  
He hears the sound of sprinting and thumping on the mats and he looks up just in time to see Dick finish a pass with a full twisting layout. He has an easy smile on his face, isn't even breaking a sweat. This is as natural to the gymnast as breathing is to Tim.   
  
Dick lightly jogs over and throws an arm around his shoulders, leading him to the corner where an old fire-safe desk was covered in stray papers and now, a slightly steaming box of pizza. He’d missed the smell of garlic and pepperoni that hung in the air over the poetry in motion that was Dick’s gymnastics.  
  
"Well. You look like you’re feeling better; you look cleaner if nothing else." Dick is giving Tim an easy smile as he ushered him into an old office chair, "Now eat greasy, cheesy, delicious pizza, like a normal teenager."  
  
Tim smiles at the pizza placed on a paper napkin before him, “I do feel most normal when I’m clean. Thanks for the clothes, by the way. I can drop them off tomorrow after school if that’s easiest for you.”  
  
"Tim, don’t worry about it. Believe it or not, you _are_ going to stick around - we’re going to see each other a lot."  
  
And Dick sounds so sure, so _genuine_. Like Tim hasn't just stumbled through the last hour of training and like he is going to succeed and actually be _Robin_. All of these… hoop dreams that Tim has... They are going to come true.  
  
"Of course, tomorrow, when we are doing this again except this time you’ll have thirty pounds of weight strapped to you, my little newly hatched Robin, you are going to rue the day we met."  
  
And Tim can't wait.


End file.
